Chapter 7

Ivy's POV

"You spoke!" Martha was the first to react.

She looked utterly astonished and immediately demanded that Cal say a few more words.

"Six months—this is the first time you've opened your mouth! This means your organs are developing properly. Now make a few more sounds..."

But Cal pressed his lips together tightly, his gaze fixed solely on Luna.

I was equally surprised, but Luna had already begun to smile. "Are you inviting me? I can—"

"No," Martha cut us off again.

Her expression was now both stern and displeased. "This is Cal's allocated portion, Ms. Vane. If your child had proper manners, she should—"

A flush of heat surged uncontrollably up my jaw—that anger mingled with humiliation.

"She wasn't trying to eat it," I said, struggling to maintain a light tone. "She was just... curious."

"Sweetie, this little boy needs to eat his lunch. We shouldn't disturb him, okay? Come help Mommy with the bag."

Luna blinked. She might not have sensed the undercurrent, but she cared more about me.

So without another word, she walked to my side and leaned against my waist.

I lowered my head, focusing intently on opening the clasp of my portfolio bag.

Then a sound came from by the window.

I looked up, surprised to see Cal jumping down.

Martha immediately stopped him, muttering on and on about "posture," "the schedule," "you must..." and so forth.

But Cal only looked toward Luna and me, his pale little face wearing an expression of undeniable authority.

He spoke slowly, enunciating each word clearly and precisely.

"I. Invite. You."

Luna looked back at him and brightened again.

She seemed particularly enthusiastic toward Cal today.

"Thank you! Is this enough for you to eat? Can you invite my mom too? Oh, we don't eat much—I just want to know what you're eating..."

Martha's disapproval was useless. Cal himself reached out and lifted the cover off the main dish.

Luna's head whipped back around. Her eyes went round.

She looked at Cal. Looked at the plate. Looked back at Cal.

"Wait..."

"This is what you eat?"

The room fell silent for a moment.

Cal blinked. He turned slowly toward her, his gaze asking: is there a problem with this?

Luna pointed at the tray.

On it sat four small portions, each in its own white ceramic bowl.

One bowl of very pale vegetable purée—perhaps parsnip, perhaps several root vegetables mashed together; in any case, completely unrecognizable from its original form. Beside it were two pieces of steamed chicken breast, cut into neat little cubes, completely unseasoned. A small serving of half-cooked egg white, no yolk. And a bowl of unsweetened oatmeal paste.

It looked like something designed by someone who understood nutrition as a set of input-output formulas, never once considering whether a four-year-old child might actually want to eat it.

"It looks like it has no flavor at all," Luna said with genuine sympathy. "My mom's cooking is way better."

Cal stared at us without blinking.

Luna enthusiastically shared about her lunch. "Hey, you know what? My mom made me noodles for lunch today. There was chicken breast on top too, but the noodles had tomato sauce—sweet and sour—and cheese on top. Sometimes we even fry an egg on top of things, because Mom says eggs taste good with everything..."

"Luna," I said.

"And I draw stars on the egg with sauce, and they look so..."

"I know." I placed my hand on her shoulder. "Let's talk about this when we get home."

Martha straightened her spine. "Cal's dietary plan was developed through consultation with two certified pediatric nutritionists. Every component meets age-appropriate requirements, excludes common allergens, and has been optimized for cognitive development and bone density."

"I'm sure it has," I said.

At the far end of the table, Cal was staring at that bowl of oatmeal paste with an expression like someone examining a very long prison sentence.

Martha stepped forward and placed a spoon in his hand. "Cal, start with the oatmeal."

He looked at the spoon.

He looked at the oatmeal.

He put the spoon down.

"Cal." Her voice sharpened a fraction. "We agreed. Everything on the tray must be eaten."

I turned away and began walking slowly along the edge of the room, pretending to examine the bookshelves. Staying out of it was the right thing to do—the professional thing. Don't interfere. You're here to take measurements for a child. Mind your own business.

"Martha," I found an opening in a quiet moment, "could I know what kinds of occasions Cal typically attends? Are there many formal events? Any outdoor activities?"

Martha paused. "Cal's current schedule is focused primarily on academic development."

"I see. Does he have outdoor time? Like afternoons in the garden, that sort of thing? I need to consider activity level when choosing fabrics."

"On days with suitable weather, there is supervised reading time in the garden."

"What about more active pursuits? Like riding a pony or playing ball—"

"Absolutely not." Her voice carried something almost like offense. "Horses are dangerous. Ball sports present risks of physical collision. Cal is a Stone—his personal safety cannot be compromised for—"

"Running around," I finished.

"Playing," she said, the word carrying a faint trace of distaste, as if referring to a habit she'd rather not encourage.

I could barely suppress my astonishment. "He's only four years old."

"He is also the heir to one of the largest private fortunes in this country, and his developmental status is relevant to—"

"But... my daughter is also four. I know what a four-year-old's state should be. At this age, their nature is to love the outdoors and running and jumping. If—"

I couldn't help but look at Cal again. He watched me quietly, as quiet as a well about to run dry.

My heart gave a dull ache.

I said softly, "Making a child this age sit in a chair all day—I simply cannot imagine what that would—"

"Your daughter," Martha said with particularly precise enunciation, "is not Cal."

She judged me with a severe gaze, concluding from on high:

"Cal's upbringing requires standards befitting his position. I understand that children from... other backgrounds have different expectations."

Luna went still beside me.

Children perceive tone before they understand meaning. She hadn't fully grasped the words, but she'd grasped their shape.

She looked up at me, her brow furrowed. "Mommy," she asked softly, "does she not like me?"

That burning thing in my chest came roaring back, twice as fierce.

I crouched down and pulled her into my arms, pressing my head gently against the top of hers. "No, sweetheart," I said quietly. "Some adults are just more serious. It doesn't mean anything."

I held her, breathing evenly, making my decision.

I couldn't lose this job. I needed this commission. I needed the door it could open, those resources, that lead—the real reason I'd returned to this city.

This brief humiliation was nothing.

I would stand up, smile at Martha, and ask a very professional question about Cal's preferred color palette.

But before I could gather myself and speak, a sharp sound of porcelain hitting the floor came from the table.